


Magpie Bridge

by ktbl



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gency, Kissing, Mutual Pining, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Tanabata, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktbl/pseuds/ktbl
Summary: The story of Orihime and Hikoboshi is that of two lovers brought together, and then separated by the consequences of their own choices.Sometimes legends play a little too close to real life.--Genji leaves Overwatch, Angela travels, there's a reunion and some clearing of the air.
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	Magpie Bridge

Go where you are needed.

It was something Angela’s parents ingrained in her early, and something she cradled close to her heart when things were terrible. Sometimes it was hard, and you weren’t wanted there, but go where you are needed. Make a difference. Even after their deaths, she held tightly to that idea. When it let her go where she wanted to, to do the things she wanted to, life was… well, not always good, but good enough. She gave want and hunger their head and let them take over. They helped her push through medical school, to take the position of Head of Surgery at the university hospital far too early for someone her age led to Jack Morrison offering her the keys to her own kingdom.

She stared at her computer screen, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. Overwatch was slowly and steadily imploding, and she was in a rush to use her resources, the last of what she could rely on, before it irrevocably disappeared. She hoped it wouldn’t, but it alwaysproved worthwhile to be prepared. She wanted to finish this, go find Genji, find out if he might be interested in dinner tonight. The atmosphere in the headquarters building was thick with tension, everyone snapping at each other, and she needed desperately to escape, to get out and do something that would bring back a little cheer. Dinner - even pot noodles, or pick up something from a restaurant on the walk back to her apartment. Anything to get out of here. She would settle for dragging him to a supply closet, if dinner couldn’t pan out. Their crushes on each other were absolutely the worst-kept secret in Overwatch headquarters, their relationship a nebulous and undefined thing made of hasty kisses and teenage pawing, never quite cresting much beyond that. With the slow and steady disintegration of the organization, it had been a secret they cared less and less about hiding. If - when - Overwatch came crashing down, maybe she would build up the willpower to ask him out, properly and formally.

There was a knock of fingers on her doorframe and she looked up. Her face brightened at the sight of the cyborg ninja standing in the door.

“Genji, please come in. I was just thinking about you.”

He walked into the office, shutting the door firmly behind him. He could move quickly when he wanted to, but his step seemed oddly heavy now. His visor and faceplate were in one hand; he usually kept them on most of the time while inside the headquarters building. The oddity struck her, sent her a bit off-balance.

“I am leaving.”

Angela glanced at her clock - barely two in the afternoon. “Have you been asked to do something with the strike team, then? I didn’t hear about any missions.” She pushed back from her desk, rising up and walking around to lean on the front of it. He was a sight to see, even covered in armor, and her heart filled a little as he came closer.

“No.” He closed the space between them with that slow, deliberate pace, until she could see the amber of his eyes, almost smell the extra oxygen the helm provided for his damaged lungs and vocal cords. Scars crisscrossed his face, and she wanted to reach up and touch them, trace the proof of his tenacity and her medical prowess alike. “I mean I am leaving Overwatch.”

“You are-“ Her voice stopped at the verbal punch in the stomach. His face was painfully serious, his tone neutral. It had none of the joking it had once carried, none of the rashness, either. It was strangely controlled for Genji. She struggled for words, the only things wanting to come to her tongue a string of anguished Schweitzerdeutsch. “You are leaving Overwatch? Is it because of Blackwatch? Is it-“

“Not Blackwatch, not the investigations, but Morrison and I decided it was prudent nonetheless.” He set his faceplates on the desk beside her, freeing both his hands. She noted absently that he was wearing all of his equipment, and seemed to have a third thing taking up bulk and space at his back. Maybe that’s what was throwing his gait, whatever the weight was. “I am not right, Angela. What was done to me - what you did to me - it has not sat well with me. I need to leave this place.”

Another punch, right across the jaw, and her head snapped back in shock. Her heart began to pound, and the medical doctor in her questioned the precipitousness of cardiac arrhythmia.

“Leave this place. Leave me. What I did to you.” She struggled to even out her breath, eyes locked on his face. “ _Mein Gott_ , Genji, how long have you been planning this?” What she wanted to say, but didn’t - _how long have you been hiding this from me?_

“Angela…” he reached for her, and her body warred with itself, unable to decide if it wanted to pull away, or to lean in and let him. “I have been thinking about it for a long time. You have been the thing to keep me here.” Her muscles loosened, ever so slightly. “Every time I doubted myself, something would hold me here. First, it was the chance to get back at the Shimada. Then it was the chance to be on the Overwatch strike team, with you and Winston and Tracer. Our day and a half in Havana, after.” His mouth tugged up slightly in a smile. “The rum.”

“The rum,” she agreed. “I still have that bottle, you know. We’ve never finished it.” She reached up towards his face, and he leaned into it, let her touch the skin on his cheek, the way she cupped the metal and the flesh both before she let her hand fall down.

“I need to figure out who I am, Angela. I cannot keep being parts of a man, parts of a machine. You did your best,” he said, and that synthesized voice was soft, his own fingertips ghosting over her wrist, up her arm, “and you did what you were asked to do, and you did the things you were told to do, and you did the best you could. But it is not enough for me, now.”

“I do not like it. I will not pretend to like it. I will not pretend to be happy about it. I cannot lie, I care about you too much to lie to you.” She closed her eyes, turning her head upwards, swallowing heavily. She squeezed her eyes shut harder, and then looked at him with what she knew were watery eyes. “Go, if you must. Be safe. I - I care about you, and you are my friend. I want the best for you.” Even if it kills me inside.

“I knew you would understand.” He leaned forward slightly, tipping his forehead against hers. With his helm it was awkward, but she did it anyway, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Knowing what he did, knowing how he ran off - the jokes about his perpetual need for medical support - she was terrified. Maybe this was what it was like to have a child, and be terrified when they went off on their own without you. The decisions they would make, the things they would do, without you around. “I am going to miss you very much, Angela.”

“I will miss you too, Genji. You must take care of yourself.”

He leaned over, and kissed her gently, a deliberate kiss on the corner of her mouth. His lips burned hot and soft where they touched her, and one of her hands tightened into a fist at her side, the other finding a tiny place in the articulated plate at his sides where it could grasp. She held him there, against her, and brushed her lips across a scar that bisected one cheek. She dropped her hand and pulled her face away. She closed her eyes again, tighter, blinking back the tears, and then looked at him. “Be safe.”

He picked his faceplate and visor up, slotting them into place and fastened the catches. He cupped her face in his hand one last time, and then walked across the room to her window, opened it, and took a leap out the window.

“Damn you, Shimada,” she said softly, unsure if she wanted to laugh or cry, so she settled for doing both.

Years later, she stood in the middle of a Japanese town battered by the damage from a volcanic eruption. Sakurajima had been steaming for decades, throwing ash and occasionally pumice into the air, but less than a week ago an earthquake in the area triggered a massive eruption that affected the neighboring communities. With her parents’ mantra in her mind, Angela now found herself helping setting bones and stitching up gashes, handling coughs and burns. It was a far cry from state-of-the-art Swiss laboratories and nearly infinite budget of her heyday, brushing ash from her hair every day. She was needed here, but certainly not wanted - she’d heard the bitter comments, even with her brutally broken Japanese. She’d have to send Genji a message at some point, if she could figure out how to reach him. The basics he’d taught her over late-night coffees were proving useful. She hadn’t received more than cursory postcards since he vanished out her window - Numbani, Gothenburg, South Korea, Toronto, Rio de Janeiro- and never a return address.

She lost herself in the work, days and nights rolled together, and the weather got warmer and warmer. The humidity rose to levels she never wanted to experience again. Her blonde hair couldn’t decide if it wanted to frizz or to cling to her face in damp strands, so it alternated at a moment’s notice. She didn’t realize how much time she had spent in the village until she saw decorations being raised in the village one morning as she walked to the clinic. There were a number of small tents being raised up, covered in bold script she could not read, along with streamers and bamboo branches.

Her first patient of the day was a man about her age with a gash on his arm that warranted sutures. He spoke good English - better than her Japanese, at any rate. In an effort to distract him from the pain and the open wound that demanded attention, she decided to distract him with conversation.

“What event is happening, with all the decorations?”

“Tanabata,” he said, watching her hawkishly. She smiled.

“Ah, I know it. Double seven festival, yes? The one with the princess and the cowherd.”

“You know Tanabata?” He looked at her with undisguised surprise, his eyes and attention everywhere but on his arm. She nodded briskly, pulling on a pair of gloves. “How do you know Tanabata?”

“A former patient of mine, a friend, is from near Tokyo.” Angela looked at the slice on his arm, and took an anesthetic spray out, applying it to the injury. She saw the slight release of tension as the spray took effect. “He told me the story, and wrote on the papers, every year.” She picked up a needle for suturing and threaded it. “I have applied an anesthetic, so you should not feel this at all, but you may wish to look away.”

The man grunted, focusing not on the needle and wound but on the wall of the clinic. “Tanzaku,” he said, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “The paper wishes are called tanzaku.”

“Yes, those. The first year I had no idea what was happening when he asked me if I could find him some bamboo, but I did. We… did not know each other so well, then, but he knew I was good at finding things. He invited me to join him the next year, to write a wish and hang it.” She irrigated the wound, disinfected it, and began to stitch.

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“And did it come true?”

“No,” she sighed, the sound heavier than she would have liked. Didn’t do for the patient to lose confidence in their physician. “But it’s a very difficult wish to attain, so I was not surprised.”

“Tanabata is often the time for difficult wishes,” the man offered, his eyes falling on the wall.

She finished up the last of the neat stitches, seven in all, and knotted the thread and snipped it off. “You must be careful for the next few days. Please use that arm as little as possible.” She offered a small, polite smile to take any sting out of her words.

He left, bowing in gratitude, and she rolled her shoulders as she cleaned up, disposing of the gloves and putting the needle in the sharps bin she kept in her office.

Angela shook off the fugue of daydreaming, straightened up and squared her shoulders, and turned to the perpetual bane of her existence: paperwork. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

The man whose arm she’d stitched returned the next day, proffering several pieces of brightly-colored paper and a pen. Angela looked up, blinking at him in confusion.

“Today is the seventh. You should write your tanzaku. I have brought you more than one paper, in case you make a writing error.” His voice was careful, precise, and polite.

She took the rainbow of papers, green and red and yellow and blue, bowing her head and shoulders in thanks, and looked at them thoughtfully. “I am afraid I don’t know what to write, at the moment.”

“I-“ His words caught, and he cleared his throat. “I will come back tonight,” he offered carefully, “and show you where to hang your tanzaku. And I can show you around the festival, if you would like. I am not from here, but I think I have been here long enough to guide you.”

“I…” She licked her lips slightly, and nodded. “I would like that very much. However, perhaps I should meet you somewhere instead. All this running about and carrying things is no good for your injury.” She looked at him, faintly cross. He paused a moment, and then nodded, and a small smile ghosted across his features.

“The bus stop, across from the-” he corrected himself, “what was the elementary school.Do you know it?” She nodded again. “When you finish work, go there. I am doing some work nearby. I will see you when you arrive.”

She watched him depart, and fanned the papers out on her desk. The last time she had written tanzaku had been with Genji across the table, and a sad little lucky bamboo plant that had been struggling to survive in the Swiss weather. Her office had neither enough warmth or sun, and despite heating and care, the plant was struggling. Laughing, they’d hung the little wishes on the plant, and he had added a pair of origami cranes as well.

It was one of the last times she’d heard him laugh, before everything fell apart. It had only been weeks before he flung himself out of her window. They’d sat on her battered office couch at the end of it, her head on his lap and his fingers carding through her hair. She had abused the projection features on her computer, calling up a fireworks display from Japan to cap off the evening. Things had been almost right, for a time. If she closed her eyes, she could remember the warmth of him, the solidity. The wind tugged at a feathery twist of escaped hair, and it was like his fingers, a joint catching on a strand.

She pinched her thigh, twisting the skin and muscle to knock herself out of the memory.That was then, this was now. Genji was gone - she wasn’t even certain where he was. She hadn’t received word from him in months, and it hadn’t helped, she supposed, that she had been on a mission here. Harder to find someone often on the move. She hoped he was doing well, and wished for the hundredth time she had a way to reach him in response, just to say she missed him. She doodled on her desk for a few minutes and thought about what she wanted to write, knowing she could wish for flippant things or sincere things, for impossible dreams or something small she could assure and get a glimpse of satisfaction to see it ‘come true’.

It took her less time than she expected to come to a conclusion, and wrote her words confidently across the paper. No second-guessing herself, no spelling corrections needed.

Angela finished her reporting and work and passed the clinic duties off to a colleague and headed back into the village. She found the bus stop, and leaned against a tree nearby as she waited for her guide. He appeared in festival attire, a yukata in blues and grey with geometric patterning. He introduced himself as Ito Hayate, and explained he had been staying in a nearby village, Miyakonojo, before the earthquakes and eruption. He was considerate in his guiding of her, though occasionally he would insist she stop to try something, and she could sense that below the composure and politeness lay something fiercer. Still waters run deep. His world was circumscribed by Japan’s borders; he seemed to have no interest in going abroad, though he made polite inquiries of her and her travels as he and showed her the small festivities. Early in the evening, as clouds began to drift across the sky, Hayate led her to the bamboo branches in one part of the town. They already boasted dozens of fluttering strips of paper, as well as small origami figures. She hung her tanzaku, tying the green strip firmly in place with a surgeon’s knot.

Hayate looked at it a little oddly, and turned back to her. His eyebrows were arched in confusion.

“The decoration on it. That is not customary.”

“Pay it no heed. I think if such wishes are to be granted, it’s understood. And if not, well - it’s time I put something to rest.” She brushed her fingers across the tanzaku, and the little sparrow feather that hung from it, and turned to Hayate. “You said something about noodles?”

There were somen, the long noodles traditional for Tanabata, and other festival snacks besides. Takoyaki - fried balls with bits of the morning’s octopus catch inside, chicken on skewers, and a dozen other things besides. It was bright and busy and Hayate kept close at her side, guiding her through the maze of stalls and decorations and games.

“Would you like to try something?” He gestured at the summer games, most of them water-themed, a relief against the coastal heat and humidity. “There is catching fish, or little balls, with paper nets. There are the shooting games-“

“No,” she said sharply, shaking her head. “No shooting games. No guns for me, Ito-san.”

“Archery?” He raised a brow. “Miyakonojo is known for its bamboo bows, and there are target games here because of proximity and heritage.”

“I am no archer,” she said, shaking her head. She reached up and caught flyaway wisps, redoing her ponytail and trying to keep them tamed. “And what would I do with goldfish, besides?”

“I know what you mean,” he replied, and motioned her with a hand. “Many Japanese boys learn archery. I was good at it once, and it is part of the reason I have been nearby. Let us see if my skill has vanished entirely.”

“No goldfish,” she warned him with a laugh, and he offered her a slight smile in exchange. She followed him to where the shooting games had been set up. She could see the shooting game he mentioned; the guns fired corks, but they were still guns. There was a ring-toss game, and someone had done something for the ninja-mad children and made a game to toss plastic shuriken at balloons. Genji would have been there with the children, winning prizes until they forced him away, she guessed. She turned away and saw Hayate looking at her expectantly. “I’m sorry - I wasn’t paying attention. Lost in my thoughts.”

“I understand. Would you try? I have confirmed there are no goldfish at stake.”

“I don’t know the first thing about holding a bow.”

“You have strong hands,” he said, “fine fingers. I think you would do well.”

“I will leave the archery to you, Ito-san,” she said firmly, meeting his eyes. “I do not like weapons.” He nodded once, his eyes searching hers. “And do not pull those stitches out, or I will resew them without anesthetic.”

He let out a surprised laugh as he paid his coin to the man behind the counter, and took the bow and three arrows. “These are not enough to strain my muscle, and I was better raised than to rouse the anger of a doctor.” Angela stepped away and to one side, her eyes onhis right arm as it pulled back, watching for any shift in the yukata to show strain or tearing of the injury on his arm.

He let the first arrow fly and it landed soundly in the target, just on the border of the bullseye. Hayate nocked the second arrow, adjusting his stance ever so slightly, and pulled back. His fingers spread, releasing the arrow, and it appeared in the target. The third followed suit, and Hayate lay the bow down and bowed slightly to the man behind the counter. There was some small transaction Angela didn’t follow, an exchange in Japanese too quick and too rich with local accent and dialect. Hayate turned around with a small Pachimari keychain, proffering it to Angela.

“But I didn’t do anything.”

“I am sure you have keys to things, and I do not these days,” he said wryly. “Take it, or give it to some child, I do not care. It would bring dishonor to him if we returned it, implying it was not good enough, and he insists I take it for you. As a souvenir from this place, for the work you have done here, if nothing else.”

Angela accepted it in the end, pocketing the little thing and following Hayate again until the evening downpour began. It happened with such suddenness and surprise they were caught in an open space and thoroughly soaked while they scrambled like so many others for a dry patch of ground. They laughed in shared embarrassment and surprise, and hid underneath the wide leafy spread of a tree that had survived the earthquake and showed a few pockmarks from being hit by pumice and other ejecta. Huddled close, he muttered some imprecations in Japanese. She turned and shrugged. “It isn’t a problem, really. I’ve had worse weather.” She smiled reassuringly, mind skipping backwards to Havana and the hunt for Maxmilien. “It’s only rain. I’ve managed hurricanes and blizzards and - other things.” Hails of gunfire, the loss of friends, the destruction of her career. “And it’s not even cold rain, at that.”

“We have had enough rain, I think,” he muttered, voice faintly annoyed. “And rain on Tanabata means the lovers will have to wait. The magpies cannot build the bridge, so the story goes. They will go two years without seeing each other. Besides, you are soaked. It is…” He trailed off, searching for a word. “Unfair to you.”

“Don’t worry, Ito-san,” she said politely. “I have had my share of unfairness. A little rain is far more welcome than other things I have endured.”

She spent another month in Japan, seeing Hayate several more times before her work was deemed complete and it was time for her to leave. They exchanged phone numbers, as friends might, and the occasional messages dwindled away over the months until his number dropped away into the bottom of her list, never deleted but almost entirely forgotten.

Angela shouldered open her apartment door in Switzerland nearly a year later, carrying a bag with her takeaway dinner. She had a full night planned. Tomorrow night she would be on a plane to South Korea, another aid worker there to help after the latest Gwishin Omnic attack. Tonight was her last night in Switzerland, and she was going to live it up: put on her rattiest of clothes, eat rösti and cheese and chocolate and watch bad holovids. She nudged the door shut with her hip, listening to it click into place, and put the bag down on her table. Change first - then eat. She turned towards her bedroom, not bothering with the lights, already thinking about warm sweatpants and an old tee shirt.

“If it rains, the magpies cannot build the bridge. The lovers must wait another year.”

The soft, synthesized voice came from a dark corner of her tiny living room, a place she’d sworn was empty. It was a voice she heard in her dreams and would always recognize. And it was a voice that shouldn’t be here.

“Genji?” She took a shaky breath, turning around in disbelief.

“Angela.” He pushed off from the wall and pressed his hands together in greeting, bowing slightly. Green lights flickered on his shoulders, limning him in a pale green light. She reached almost blindly for the wall and slapped the lights on, heart pounding unevenly in surprise. Control yourself, she thought firmly, taking several steps towards him.

She could barely keep the nervous excitement from her voice, as hard as she tried. “You seem well, Genji.” He did, too - white and grey and green armor in good repair. Maybe a little dented, a few scratches - she looked up at his visor, his face hidden, expression concealed. He must have been having someone take care of it, the careful balance of his systems. She reached forward to touch a dent in his shoulder, then pulled her hand back quickly.

“I am a different man now. I am whole.” His voice sounded at peace - none of the frustration he’d carried.

“And how did you get into my apartment? How long have you been… lurking here?” She put her hands on her hips, gave a slightly exaggerated expression of being put out.

“You haven’t moved in all these years,” he replied. “Also, ninja, remember?”

“Hmph,” she grumbled, but smiled broadly, unable to be angry with him. She wanted to be - the invasion of privacy, the year without contact, the departure that had shattered her He took another step forward, his arms loose and open as if to embrace her. She could not resist it and stepped into the embrace. She pressed her head against him, closing her arms around the cyborg. His hands didn’t quite seem to know where to settle, one eventually resting on a hip and the other at the small of her back. It was him - warm and solid and _right_.

“So what brings you here, then?” She took a step back, and he tilted his head slightly. He reached up with both hands, unfastening the faceplate and visor. There was a hiss, a click, and his hands were full with the metal. She took them from him, set them on an end table, and then took a moment to look at his face. Scarred, battered, with the reconstructed jaw and synthetic skin, but it was his, and she had missed it terribly.

“I saw your wish last year.”

“You saw what!?” Angela pulled back in bafflement and embarrassment. “How?”

“There was a picture taken, shown in the news. I was following the recovery efforts. There are few blonde-haired relief workers in Japan, especially in that area, but your colleagues and yourself made for cheerful coverage in the midst of tragedy.”

She could feel the heat of a blush taking over her face. “Have you been learning German, then?”

“Translation app,” he said with a heartbreaking grin. She groaned and tried to bury her face, but had nowhere to hide. “ _Was ich will, aber nicht haben kann,_ wasn’t it? What I want but cannot have. If it is any consolation, I was not wholly certain it was you until Brigitte posted something about you being in Japan and sending candy back for her,” he added.

“I will hang her by her heels. I will prescribe a diet with no sweets. I will -“ She snapped her mouth shut, frustrated.

“She is an adult,” he counseled, “and unlikely to listen.”

“You are not helping me feel any better,” she replied, mind still spinning almost giddily.

“Perhaps I know a way I can.” His hands caught hers and he sat down on the couch, drawing her down to sit beside him. “I’m here to tell you that you can, you know.”

“Can what?” Her expression must have matched the confusion she felt.

“Have what you want.”

“Hmm?” She blinked at him, and then shook her head, going pale. “No, I can’t. I - Genji, I was being silly, and-“

“So you are saying you don’t want that still? That it was a year ago, and it’s not a wish you have now?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all!” She huffed with annoyance, at the struggle to pull her words and feelings together into something coherent, and then saw the smile crease his face.

“Angela, I spent half a year wandering, and since then it has been years in a monastery with omnic monks. We were both afraid, then - wanting what we did not think we could, or should, have. I am more aware, more in control, of myself and my thoughts than I have ever been. I know the difference between needing and wanting. I needed you before, even though we both thought it was otherwise. You were right to send me away.”

“I did not send you away,” she said, startled enough that her accent thickened. “You said you were leaving Overwatch. I told you to be safe.” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “You said good-bye, and then you leapt out of my third floor office! Out the window!”

“And I am grateful you calibrated my joints so well, or I would have twisted an ankle and lost the great departure. It would have been far less impressive.” He winked. “I needed the support you gave me, and needed to learn how to stand on my own two feet, without you as a crutch. A year ago would have been too early. I was not ready. I wanted to come to you immediately, but my master - a monk named Zenyatta - counseled me against it. I am selfishly grateful that it rained, because I could come now with clear thoughts, a clear head.”

“Genji, I don’t understand.” She looked at him blankly.

“Remember the story? If it rains on the Tanabata festival, Orihime and Hikoboshi cannot meet. The magpies cannot build their bridge, and the weaver and her cowherd must wait another year. It rained last year. But it is nothing but clear skies now.” He stepped forward, taking one of her hands in his, then the other. “I can give you what you want. I can give you your wish.” Her fingers clenched around his, and he could see the way her chest caught, her breathing stuttered. 

“Are you certain? I- my wish, last year, I did not think-“

“Angela, and I mean this with the greatest and utmost respect, but it is very hard to kiss you when you keep talking.” He slid his fingers into her hair, tilting his face down ever so slightly. Her body still knew how to avoid the beaklike visor, and turned her mouth to him. They’d done this more than once, but there was a heat tonight that hadn’t been there before. A degree of certainty, and not a fast-burning spark but the sort of low, deep throb of an ember long kept covered. His lips were warm, some of the scar tissue slick and smooth where it cut across, the scar she knew carried up towards his eye. It was slow and sweet, sending shivers up her spine. She couldn’t keep from shifting on the couch, fingers trying to find the closures that would release the helm. She wanted to card her fingers through his hair, hold his face in her hands. He let out a muffled chuckle, taking a breath and then kissing her again.

She opened her mouth for him, and found herself on his lap though she did not remember moving. He tasted like oxygen - it was silly, but the mask fed a slow stream in to ensure he had enough, and there was the faint dry taste of it in his mouth. Kissing him made her euphoric, and she couldn’t decide if it was the increase in oxygen that still carried faint and cool from the helm, or just having him back again. She realized as her tongue slid across his that she didn’t really care, either. She delved the corners of his mouth, let him explore her own, reacquainting themselves after prolonged absence. Nestled against him and the familiar solidity of his armor, her hands finally found the catches and the release mechanisms on his helm. There was a muted sound of frustration, what might have been an exhaled curse, and his hands lifted up with hers to pull the metal free. The helm was set almost carelessly on the couch, staring vacantly at them both as Angela settled herself, straddling his lap, cupping his face, staring at him.

He looked at peace. He wasn’t just saying he was there - he truly did look it. There was a sparkle in his eyes, pupils blown wide with desire, but none of the angry wrinkles that once furrowed the sides of his eyes or creased his forehead. She ran a hand through his hair, and he closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the couch, almost catlike.

“You look better now, I think. The Shambali have eased your mind.”

“Better still now that I can ease my heart.” His hands settled on her thighs, and looked back to her. “I meant what I said, Angela. It took time, but I am yours, if you will have me.”

“I leave -“ She broke off, looking away. “I leave for South Korea tomorrow.”

“Then we have one night, like Orihime and Hikoboshi. I intend to make it memorable.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to/you can only blame yourselves, angst gremlins of the Doves & Sparrows Discord server!


End file.
